Comfort of a Scar
by aprilanddecember
Summary: Soul isn't wearing a shirt. His scar seems to stare at her, mock her. They both freeze. [One Shot] COMPLETE!


Maka sighs in relief as she pulls open her apartment door. Walking into a warm room from the frigid night air felt like stepping into a warm shower. Exhausted after studying for countless hours, the scene before her is the last thing she wants to come home to. After cleaning yesterday, it's easy to spot the discarded basketball shorts and light blue t-shirt dangling from a kitchen chair.

 _Is Soul naked?_

In case her weapon had completely lost it and was roaming the house in his birthday suit, she takes extra care to exaggerate her movements. Her boots make a satisfying clunk as she discards them by the door. She even opens the fridge door and slams it shut.

No response.

"SOUL! Why are your clothes everywhere?!" Come to think of it, she didn't see boxers anywhere. That was a relief. At least he was partially clothed.

She hears the click of Soul's bedroom door opening and his voice floats down the hall.

"Relax! I got sweaty playing basketball with the guys. Give me a break, a cool guy like me couldn't wear those clothes around the house. I was going to clean them up right after I showered."

"Really? So you just had to strip the minute you walked in the door? The bathroom is two seconds from here!"

"Sheesh, I'll clean them up right now." His voice is at the end of the hall, telling her he is just about to turn into the living room where she stands.

Maka drops her head to the floor, fingers pinching her nose, and says in the calmest voice she can muster, "You'd better or I"ll get all my dictionaries and Maka-Cho-" She stops the second she snaps her head up to give him her dead-serious eyes.

He isn't wearing a shirt. Oh.

Just long black sweats, the ones she always steals when it's cold at night. His head and face are obscured by an orange towel as he none-too-gently removes the water from his hair.

He just showered. She came home too early. She had started talking about his discarded clothes before he finished getting dressed. It wasn't his fault.

Finding it odd that Maka had stopped threatening him with violence mid-sentence, his head emerges from the towel. "Maka?" He realizes his mistake when he finds Maka's eyes fixated on his chest.

His scar.

Since the incident a year ago, it had become an unspoken rule that he always wore a shirt. Always. Even when it was really hot. The scar brought back too many painful memories for her.

"Maka, I'm sorry." He drops the towel from his shoulder so it's covering his torso, hiding the gash stretching from hip to collarbone.

"Wait." She's so quiet it scares him. Normally, she would have thrown something at him to express her frustration. But she is frozen. Soul thinks he prefers the flying objects. At least that's familiar, this is too weird.

She isn't looking at him though. Her eyes stay glued to his chest, clouded by sadness and regret as she crosses the threshold between them.

His mind is scrambled. Soul! You've gotta move!. His mind is screaming reason at him, but all he can do is sluggishly back away until his back meets the pantry door, effectively trapping himself.

He sees her arm as it stretches out toward his body, agonizingly slow, until her hand meets his on the corner of the towel. He is too fixated on the fact that her ever-present gloves are missing to realize she's slipped the towel out of his hand.

It makes a soft, muted sound as it hits the floor. Everything is muted tonight. The only light comes from the kitchen and bathroom, their small pantry corner is dappled in shadows.

He feels her thumb brush the lowest stitch mark, sitting on his hip. How are her hands so warm? It's cold outside, he muses, simultaneously shivering at her touch.

She slowly drags the pad of her thumb across each stitch, now only raised bumps of flesh.

He lets her, hardly breathing, aware that something important is happening even if he doesn't understand it completely.

Movement from her face brings his eyes from her thumb to her lips. He can see her mouthing numbers. She's counting.

She takes her time, as if memorizing the texture, shape, and length of each stitch. It's soothing somehow. The scar itself isn't as sensitive to touch as it was in the beginning. He can feel his eyes closing as her thumb traces the section above his sternum. Just breathing, nothing else.

His eyes snap open as her hand cups his shoulder.

"How much does it hurt now?"

He raises his eyebrows, "You know it doesn't hurt anymore. Don't you think I would have stopped you if it hurt? It doesn't hurt, okay. It felt ni-" Turning his head, he makes a small coughing sound, grateful for the shadows, hoping they cover his reddening face.

A small puff of air hits his neck, bringing his attention back to Maka.

Another exhale of air followed by, "You know what I mean Soul. Not the scar itself. Stein said you might have other side effects." Her eyes demand an answer, nothing less than the truth.

She continues, "He said it might burn, or the skin surrounding it might-"

"Cold."

"What? Cold?" Her eyebrows pull together in confusion.

"Yes, cold," he tries to pull his sluggish mind together for an adequate explanation. "Sometimes it gets really cold for no reason. Like someone dumped ice water on it."

Instead of the relief he expects to see from his honestly, her face begins to crumple, the first sign she is going to cry.

"Wait!" He whispers with as much intensity as he can, not wanting to yell, but needing her to understand. "That hasn't happened for months." He lifts his mouth into a gentle smile, but she doesn't seem to notice.

Instead, she is nodding, processing, accepting his answer.

Her hand returns to his chest, this time her pointer finger rests on a specific notch of puckered skin. He doesn't think it's a coincidence it's one closest to his heart.

Her eyes focus so intently on this one, like she's trying to decide where it fits into a puzzle. Then something clicks, he can see it because the clouds lift from her eyes, leaving something hardened and resolute in their place. It's the look she gets when she's made up her mind on something.

As unexpected and quick as a flash of lightning, she bends her head, replacing her finger with her lips.

It takes Soul a full three seconds to process what has happened.

It's only the lightest pressure, like a whisper, but it sears his skin, traveling to each end of his scar like a wildfire.

On the surface, the wildfire burns, but inside the fire is slower, like a tsunami of flame, washing everything clean, widening the cracks in his carefully constructed walls.

Too quickly, the fire is doused as twin drops of water fall to his chest.

As gently as possible, Soul takes her shoulders and pulls her back until they are only breaths apart.

He cups her face and wipes the tear tracks away, smearing them to the edges of her cheeks.

"Thank you, Soul." And he understands. Understands that she is thanking him for much more than wiping away her tears. Thanking him for saving her that night, for suffering the consequences of the black blood, for never leaving her, for holding still so she could make peace with the physical evidence of the ordeal.

Her thin arms slowly slip around his shoulders, her hands reaching to play with the damp hair at the nap of his neck. As she breathes in his shampoo and deodorant, she wonders when this became the smell of home.

"Just hold still. For a second. Please."

Not planning on moving anyway, Soul's only response is to wrap his arms around her waist, pull her closer, and rest his chin on her shoulder.

Maka knows they stay like that much longer than a second, much longer than five minutes even. But now she knows that if the scar ever enters her dreams again, this moment will replace the fear she always used to feel.


End file.
